


In Which Our Heroes Attend a Fancy Cocktail Party

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Femlock, Gen, Queer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson would like to go on record  and say this was not his idea. It was not his idea to go to a charity event with his flatmate. It was not his idea to steal Mycroft's invitation. And it was certainly not his idea to go after a murderer-embezzler. Though he does wonder if he could get Mrs Hudson to try to duplicate these canapé recipes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Our Heroes Attend a Fancy Cocktail Party

**Author's Note:**

> This might just be a stand-alone or it might turn into a series - it's still up in the air depending on muses and time management. But this concept is something that's been floating around in my head for awhile: make Sherlock an asexual woman, make John an out gay man, and let life at 221B Baker Street continue on as normal.
> 
> As usual, many thanks to my lovely beta :)

It had been a long day at the surgery, and John was looking forward to relaxing with a cup of tea and that novel he’d been trying to finish for the past three weeks. Somehow, things kept happening to it - acid spills, strange disappearances, and a particularly memorable run in with a parakeet. Where his flatmate had found a parakeet to borrow for an experiment, John didn’t want to know.

Although nothing should have surprised him anymore at this point, it was still a bit of a shock when he opened their door to see said flatmate clad only in a bra, knickers, and stockings. Her hair was in curlers and the sitting room reeked of hair spray. And she’d stolen his slippers again.

“Um..?” he managed eloquently.

“Oh, good, you’re home. There’s a car coming for us in half an hour and a suit for you in your bedroom.”

“I’ve missed something, I take it?”

“I told you, we're attending a gala for one Ms Hollingberry’s charity event; the proceeds are going toward lupus research,” she explained, fiddling with the hair curlers. 

“When did you tell me this? And why? You’re not exactly the philanthropist type.”

“I told you yesterday at the library. Mr Fernsby cares a great deal about lupus since his mother was diagnosed. At least, he cares about seeming like he cares about lupus, so I’m sure he’ll come into town to make an appearance. And I need information to confirm he’s the culprit in that murder-embezzlement case we’ve got on.”

“I didn’t go with you to the library yesterday.”

“Didn’t you?” she replied distractedly, reaching for her tube of mascara.

“No, I didn’t. What if I’d had plans?”

“You don’t, I checked. 25 minutes now, John. Please do make an effort to look presentable this time.”

“Let the record show that I’m only doing this because I don’t trust you not to deduce a bunch of frail old ladies to tears,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “And, let me guess, we’re going as a couple?”

“Well of course we are. An unaccompanied woman at a party like this is unusual; I need to not draw attention to myself. Besides, I know you’ve spent three of the past seven evenings trying to find a date at that ridiculous gay bar with the phallic-shaped beer glasses. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Yes, a big, stuffy dinner with my flatmate as a beard is the perfect place to attract a homosexual man.”

“That’s the spirit. Now go. And wear the suit I picked out this time. It matches my dress.”

“You bought me another suit? Wonderful.” John had to stop and think of how his life had made such a turn that he and his asexual flatmate were colour-coding their wardrobes to sneak into fancy charity events. “How domestic of us, Miss Holmes.”

“Hardly,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll. “You needed a new suit. Those jumpers are appalling. And it came out of Mycroft’s bank account, so you really shouldn’t be concerned.” Oh, well then. The British Government itself was apparently funding his attire for the evening. He left Sheridan to finish her makeup and traipsed upstairs. There was indeed a suit laid out on the bed for him - dark grey jacket with a plum shirt and silver tie. Putting it on, he had to admit that living with Sheridan had drastically increased his fashion sense. Although it was a little disconcerting that she seemed to magically know his measurements.

He came back downstairs, hoping to have enough time for a quick cup of tea, only to find Sheridan dressed (and she was right, his suit did match her purple dress well) and attempting to shove a pair of police regulation handcuffs into a small clutch purse. It wasn’t going well.

“I will never understand why no one makes dresses with pockets,” she snarled, tossing the handbag aside in disgust. “I can’t bring half of the tools I need like this. I’ll have to borrow some space in your jacket.”

“And you can’t use your coat because…?”

“Coat check, John! A lock-picking kit is useless if it’s tucked away in a cupboard.”

“We’re getting arrested tonight, aren’t we?”

“It’s improbable,” she said blithely, “The lock-picking tools are mostly a precaution, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t.” Sheridan shot him a grin and hopped off the sofa, manhandling John’s jacket open to slip in the kit and handcuffs. She adjusted his tie, as well, rolling her eyes at the sorry state of the knot. It was only then that he noticed the footwear she’d chosen: dangerously high stilettos. “Do you really have to wear those? I was looking forward to being taller than my date for once.”

“The average height for a male in the United Kingdom is five feet, ten inches. It would be nearly absurd for your date _not_ to be taller than you,” she smirked. “Coming, John?”

“I was hoping to have some tea…”

“No time.” She breezed through the sitting room, collecting the purse from the floor and her coat from its bizarre placement on the bison horns. “The car’s already waiting for us.” John paused at the statement.

“Did you appropriate one of your brother’s limousines again?”

“I prefer the term ‘borrow.’ He won’t even know it’s gone. Now hurry up; we’ll miss the opening speeches if we dawdle much longer.”

* * *

John expected they'd be held up at the door - this didn’t seem like the type of event that one could just walk into, even someone as persuasive as Sheridan Holmes. But his flatmate had magically produced an invitation, rumpled from being crammed inside her bag with who knew what else (and was that real gold leaf?) and they’d been ushered inside without so much as a raised eyebrow. There was a hoard of sharply dressed staff members waiting to take their coats and escort them to the ostentatious ballroom.

“Well, I can safely cross _cocktail party at the Langham Hotel_ off my bucket-list,” John said as he grabbed an oyster from a passing waiter. “Though you’d think for the cost of this whole thing they could just, I don’t know, donate the money to charity? More efficient, and all.”

“The wealthy care nothing about efficiency, John; they care about visibility.” Her voice dropped in pitch a bit, taking on the pontifical tone she normally reserved for imitating Mycroft. “‘Oh, Lord So-And-So was photographed raising money for lupus, isn’t that lovely? Such a giving man.’ Speaking of which, though, we should probably make it a point to avoid the cameras, if possible.”

“How did you even get an invite for this thing, Sheridan? Some rich client couldn’t go and they passed it on to you?”

“I didn’t. Nicked Mycroft’s.”

“You...stole your brother’s invitation?” he asked incredulously. “Why did he even _have_ an invitation?”

“You must have gathered by now that my brother and I come from a certain social circle.” She brushed the implications off with a shrug. “And he certainly wasn’t going to use the invitation. At best, he would have sent that nameless assistant and some random MI5 agent. We’ve just saved him the trouble, far as I’m concerned.” Conversation apparently over, she began scanning the crowd of London’s elite for Samuel Fernsby.

Nearly two hours, seven painfully awkward conversations with wealthy partygoers and three glasses of very good wine later, John was beginning to think Sheridan had got it wrong. Maybe a charity event wouldn’t be enough to draw an embezzler-murderer out into the open of London’s upper class society.

“No,” Sheridan murmured at his elbow.

“Are you sure you can’t read minds?”

“You’ve checked your watch three times in the past five minutes and have begun staring intently at any remotely suspicious man that walks past,” she explained. “But you needn’t worry - Fernsby can’t resist this, I’m sure of it.”

“You know, I wouldn’t think less of you if you were occasionally wrong.” She huffed indignantly at the implication but John could tell her she was fighting a smile. “And you really should try some of...is this foie gras?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” Sheridan said calmly. John choked on his wine.

“Sorry?”

“There’s our man.” She gave a discreet nod toward a dashing redhead in full suit and tails hovering near the bar.

“That’s Fernsby? He’s less...creepy than I expected.”

“I need to go seduce him.”

“Oh. Well, cheers. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Will you need the handcuffs?”

“I don’t expect so,” she replied, either missing or avoiding the innuendo. She shoved her compact mirror into John’s hand and teased her curls a bit. “This is just about information. Lestrade has made his feelings on my arresting suspects quite clear.”

“Since when do you listen to Lestrade?” John asked in shock. Sheridan ignored him in favour of giving her reflection one last appraisal before snatching the mirror back and turning to go. John impulsively caught her arm and she stopped short, shooting him a confused glare. “Hey - be careful, yeah? If you’re right, he did hire a hitman to kill his stockbroker, after all.”

“Your concern is noted and appreciated, but ultimately needless. Don’t let my brother convince you I am not fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know that, just…” John trailed off, and she gave a very put-upon sigh.

“I will be careful. And whilst I’m away, I believe tall, dark, and handsome over by the gaudy mermaid fountain came here alone.”

* * *

Samuel Fernsby was dull. Dull, boring, and almost as tedious as Mycroft. The only thing remotely bright about the man was his blindingly white teeth. Sheridan was beginning to rethink her assessment - Fernsby was guilty of several things, marital unfaithfulness currently topping the list, but it was doubtful that either embezzlement or murder was within his capabilities. He'd fetched her a drink which she had steadfastly been taking fake sips from, but if he continued on about his stocks any longer she was considering just downing the thing and hoping the alcohol would make this whole affair more bearable.

There was a sudden brief lull in the conversation - surprising that he even allowed her time for a response - and she simpered appropriately. Fernsby took that as permission to continue, not noticing that Sheridan was entirely indifferent toward the difference in XLY and XLP Components. And then, finally, _there it was_.

“I’ve booked a room for the weekend - would you like to retire and discuss our assets?” He gave her a smile that could only be described as lewd, and oh if that wasn’t one of the worst pickup lines she’d ever encountered. Still, getting access to his computer had been the goal of this entire painful exercise.

“I’d be delighted,” Sheridan replied coyly. She fluttered her eyelashes a bit in encouragement, but it seemed to be unnecessary - Fernsby was already staring unabashedly at her breasts. He eagerly grabbed her hand, leading her out of the ballroom and up a couple flights of stairs; she indulged in some vapid giggling for effect.

He ushered her into room 458 but then excused himself to the toilet to "change into something more comfortable.” An odd choice - didn’t most sexual liaisons involve the participants taking off each other’s clothing? No matter. Sheridan estimated she had about four minutes before he’d return; with any luck she could search for the necessary information and be gone before he’d finished.

The laptop was out in plain sight and the password was child’s play: the name of his country estate. The wifi automatically connected, but the idiot had saved her the trouble and copied the worst of the emails as documents to the desktop. It was surprising at this point to even see the incriminating messages that should have, by all accounts, indicated at least a passably intelligent individual - three to what seemed like an incredibly shady investment firm for the embezzling and a solitary correspondence with an unnamed professional hitman. She snapped a few rudimentary pictures with her phone, forwarded the documents to her own email account for good measure, and was just about to logout when Fernsby reemerged from the loo.

Damn.

He stared at her for several seconds, as if deeply hurt by the betrayal of a woman he’d singled out for the sole purpose of sexual intercourse, and then lunged, grabbing an empty wine bottle. Everything would have been fine - she was closer to the door and Fernsby was clearly inebriated - had the heel of her left shoe not chosen that exact moment to snap. She was momentarily unbalanced and Fernsby managed to get in a very lucky glancing blow to her head. Sheridan could only have blacked out for half a second, but by the time she opened her eyes John was sailing across the room and executing a perfect rugby tackle, Lestrade sprinting in behind him. And yes that was incredibly fortuitous but what exactly was going on?

“I believe,” John panted, “this is the perfect opportunity for an ‘I told you so.’”

* * *

“It was the bartender that tipped me off,” John explained, holding a bag of ice to her head as they waited for Lestrade to return and take their statements. Sheridan couldn’t be bothered to do it herself - she was too busy texting Mycroft scathing messages about sending the DI in as her minder. “Said he thought Fernsby had slipped something into your scotch.” _That_ was surprising.

“But I didn’t drink it, surely Fernsby noticed that?”

“Well, you said he wasn’t the brightest criminal we’ve encountered,” John shrugged. “It was just good luck that I happened to have a lock-picking kit in my jacket. And that Lestrade was there.”

“You can thank Big Brother for Lestrade’s presence,” Sheridan scoffed. “Honestly, I don’t know which of you is worse. I had everything under control.” John simply raised an eyebrow and shifted the ice pointedly. “I did. I would have been absolutely fine if not for a shoddy cobbler.”

“Hmm, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on that one,” he said. “Should stick to more sensible footwear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time. So, what are you going to call this one, then? ‘The Benefit Fraud?’ ‘In the Market for Murder?’”

“Honestly I was going to call it ‘Death Collecter’ but I kind of like ‘Market for Murder’ better,” John teased. “Although they both hit a bit too close to home considering what your brother might do to me for letting you get attacked by a suspect.”

“Someday, Mycroft will finally realise that I am an adult, with thoughts and a brain and everything,” Sheridan said wistfully. “In the meantime, I don’t think you have anything to worry about; my brother appreciates your efforts. Though I expect the manufacturer of my heels mightn’t be so lucky...”


End file.
